The Undeniable Greatness of 44

My siblings have fixated on some numbers on a recent text thread. Mo has informed us that CA is the 31st state and a golf ball has 336 dimples. Wouldn’t that be a great job–golf ball dimple counter?

JP chimed in with “To traverse just our Milky Way galaxy, traveling at the speed of light (186,000 miles per second- which is not possible), it would take 100,000 years just to cross from one side to the other.” Yes, it boggles the mind.

Me? I’ve been hunkering down with forty-four lately. Some call it doom scrolling. I prefer something more rural. I chase rabbits. In this age of Tik-Tok and reels and Siri and all sorts of AI, it’s not difficult at all to chase rabbits down holes and across fields and deep into the forest. And if you’re reading this right now, you are likely a rabbit-chaser yourself.

Consider this about the number 44:

Sam Walton was 44 when he founded Walmart in Rodgers, Arkansas. In 1890, Wyoming was the 44th state admitted. While Obama was the 44th President, Dan Quayle was the 44th Vice-President. I’ll bet you a potatoe you didn’t know that (here’s a link on why I misspelled potato, if you don’t know or can’t recall.)

Element #44 on the periodic table is ruthenium. Not named after either Babe or Baby, the name is Latin for Russia. The element is used mostly with electronics. And it was discovered in 1844. Get it? #44 in 1844. I have chills.

Feel like traveling? The 44th latitude takes you to Bordeaux, France for the wine drinkers or Bucharest, Hungary for the historians. Feel like staying closer to home? Try out Eugene or Green Bay (go Pack go!) or Northern New Hampshire. If you want to get really crazy, jet to the Southern Hemisphere for New Zealand or the wilds of Chile. How can you not love 44?

How about sports? Do you have any idea what Hall of Famers wore that number? It’s pretty remarkable. Twelve men wore #44 in the NFL Hall of Fame. That’s a dirty dozen of talent right there. MLB features Hank Aaron, Reggie Jackson, and Willie McCovey, all in the Hall of Fame. Toss in another six NBA giants in the Hall of Fame.

I’m sure there are other sports with that jersey number, but I’m not chasing that rabbit.

Brittany Spears, Kelly Clarkson, Prince William, Serena Williams, and a bunch of other people who are “famous”–that’s right, all 44 years old.

Here’s the flip side, a group of folks who all died at 44. Start with Steve Irwin. Crikey, mates! But also, Mary Queen of Scotts, Serena Williams, Marvin Gaye, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Vlad the Impaler. (Quick leap down this hole–Vlad impaled maybe 2000 folks and he was the inspiration for Dracula. Plus, he has a super-cool nickname.)

When I was a yute, I thought 44 sounded old. Not ancient, like 60 or 70, but certainly old. Aging turns that perspective on its head. At 66, I’m halfway through my second set of 44. When I was 44 years old…Bush was President, the I-Phone wasn’t invented yet, and I couldn’t see my retirement with the Hubble Telescope. I won’t bother creating a list of people not yet born in 2004. Yikes. Bottom line: 44 ain’t that old.

New idea: old age doesn’t begin until at least 75.

Lots of other numbers floating around this week, especially today. I’m thinking specifically of 9, 11, and 25. No doubt about it, those are biggies when you put them together. I won’t begin to wade into those waters. Too deep for this post.

I will say this about 9/11. It was ours before it was theirs. Long before that date filled minds with horrific images we’d rather forget, 9/11 filled my brain with images I’ll always cherish.

Two kids barely old enough to drink standing at the altar. A few bridesmaids and groomsmen on either side. A pastor I barely knew. A wedding cake and a table full of presents waiting downstairs. My date, 9/11/82, the day Melanie and I were married. Nineteen years before four skyjacked airliners said “look what we did,” we said “I do” at the front of Springfield Baptist Church.

So 9/11…It was ours before it was theirs. That’s my reply when I tell people my anniversary. It was ours. 44 years ago, we laid claim to that date and no act of terror will shake me from that conviction.

It’s been quite a journey.

Disneyland still has an attraction called Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. It’s one of the few original rides remaining. Seating two people in a small, English motorcar, the journey begins quietly, serenely. Not for long. The ride is a series of jolts and turns and climbs and dips and near accidents, until it finally careens to a smooth finish and you make an appointment with your chiropractor.

Most long marriages, I suspect, are like that. You make plans at the outset. Ah, man plans and God laughs. The plans go and the two of you follow the track together. The key is the last word: together. You don’t know exactly where you’re going or what will happen, but it will be together. That’s been our mantra; so far, so good.

I looked up the traditional gifts for the 44th. One site said groceries, but gourmet, not just the corner store. Another said electronics, which is pretty vague. The precious stone is turquoise or jade. Nobody knows for sure what gift to give on the 44th. I’m not sure what to do with that list. It’s a rabbit hole for another day.

Today we’ll celebrate in our way (movie and nice dinner) and then come home and maybe take a nap. Dang, 44 years of marriage, that’s a LONG time!

I’m hoping to reach 50 with all the trappings. After that, if we get that far, who knows?

Right now, I’ll settle on 44, an undeniably great number.

Thanks for reading!

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